Nightlock's Promise
by eclipsed heart
Summary: Katniss said Peeta killed Foxface. But what if Katniss was wrong? What if Peeta wasn't the one responsible for Foxface's death? What if Foxface knew exactly what would happen if she ate the nightlock? Foxface POV. Oneshot.


AN: Okay, so this is my first _Hunger Games _fic, and I don't really plan on writing anymore. It is a oneshot, and it will stay a oneshot. Sorry, folks.

So, background is that this takes place during the book, before Katniss finds Peeta picking the nightlock and they learn of Foxface's death. I decided to write in Foxface's perspective, so as to see her side of what happened. And here it is...

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Nightlock's Promise

In utter silence, I watch as the boy, Peeta, picks the berries. He seems completely oblivious to the fact that he's picking nightlock, one of the deadliest berries to grace our country. I heard about nightlock when I was a little girl, not ten years old. I never thought that my knowledge of its effect would come in handy, even when my name was drawn and called to participate in the Games.

And now, here I am, watching the boy from District 12 pick his death.

I have no idea how I've survived the Games this long, making it to the final four. Maybe it's because I've made no alliances, trusted no one, mooched off of the Careers, and laughed when someone blew up their supplies. Maybe those are the only reasons I've survived this long, even though I have about zero skills.

Four of us left: Cato, the last Career; Katniss, who blew away even the Gamemakers; Peeta, Katniss's ally from District 12, who just might be dead in a moment; and me.

I'm pretty sure I know who will win the Games this year. Katniss, from District 12, is just intimidating, though she doesn't try to show it. I can tell that there's no way she's going down, not without a hell of a fight.

Cato is also intimidating, but a bit too cocky as well. He's brutal, lethal, and deadly. Katniss won't kill him, I'm sure of it. His pride will kill him.

Peeta could make it out alive, but that's so unlikely. Heck, I could probably kill him now, if I really want to. But I don't. I don't want to kill anyone.

I'm positive that I won't even make it till tonight. If Cato finds me, I'll be killed in such a grotesque manner that I don't even want to think about it. If Katniss and Peeta find me spying on them, I don't know what they'll do.

So, right now, my choices are death or...death. The only difference is that one will definitely be slow and torturous while the other...I don't know.

I've lately been spying on the District 12 tributes, deciding them the wisest and most merciful. I've copied some of their actions, some of their survival methods, and it has helped me a lot.

_Copying everyone else all the time, the monkey one day cut his throat._

My mother would always say that whenever I tried to follow the crowd and be someone she knows I'm not. I know what the saying means, but everything changes the moment you find yourself _surviving_ rather than _living_. Right now, I'm _surviving_. And just barely.

_...the monkey one day cut his throat._

I gasp then immediately put my hand over my mouth and hold my breath, hoping the boy didn't hear me. He stops for a moment, looks around, then turns back to the nightlock. I remove my hand and quietly let my breath flow out.

My two options from earlier have suddenly turned into three. Brutal death, unknown death, and...a peaceful death.

The berries offer the third option.

A couple years ago, when I was at home and watching the Games, one of our district's tributes committed suicide. Our district considered it a complete disgrace and his family is still shunned for their dead son's actions. If I make my death look like a suicide, the same fate will arrive for my family. I won't do that to them.

_Copying everyone else all the time..._

A plan formulating in my head, I pretend to observe the boy, watching him pick the spawn of death itself. I let my face melt into a mask of contemplation, as if I'm debating whether or not to follow the fool's example. I shrug and reach forward to the bush that's heavy-laden with the nightlock. Carefully, trying not to rustle the leaves, I pluck one single, solitary berry from its place. I let it roll in my hand, passing over my fingers like a bug gliding on stagnant pond water.

The only one who will know that this is my choice will be my mother. She's the one who told me about the nightlock, the one who insisted I be my own self. Everyone else would just think that it was some unfortunate incident, or that Peeta had picked the nightlock for the sole purpose of tricking me. I smirk at the thought. _Him_ tricking _me_? The boy would be dead if it weren't for his little girlfriend.

Then, thinking that I owe Mother _some_ form of explanation, no matter how vague, I whisper to the berry, "_Copying everyone else all the time, the monkey one day cut his throat._"

I look at the boy again, trying to hold up the unfortunate incident/trap facade. This is not a suicide to the rest of Panem; it's just another death from the 74th Hunger Games. The Games have already taken so many lives. Mine will be nothing to add to the death toll. Another name, another face, another number. And none of the Gamemakers will realize that I choose this, that I'm defying them and their twisted ways by dying peacefully in their arena. I mean nothing to them, and they mean nothing to me.

I stare at the nightlock, almost smiling. I lift my fingers to my lips, feel the berry pass through, fall into my mouth. Peaceful death, here I come.

Slowly, cautiously, I chew, feeling the berry burst, its juice spilling out in my mouth. Oh, the juice! How can something so fatal be so sweet? Nightlock promises death, but not before giving its victim something good to remember, to hold on to.

I smile, close my eyes, savor the sweetness, and swallow, falling into an everlasting sleep.

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Disclaimer: The proverb about the monkey does not belong to me.

REVIEW are always appreciated! :)


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